Stand Together

My first memory is that of a hot summer day, when I walked among the green fields in the village, where there was always plenty. In that fond memory, I am clearly not alone, there are other children and some adults, all sitting under a massive tree and resting. What a stark contrast to the construction site where I lay bricks and concrete now. It is another hot day but Mumbai’s humidity makes it unbearable. The sun catches the silver ring on one of my fingers and I am reminded of Mamatha and the tree under which I teased her for putting the ring on my finger. There was so much greenery and I never appreciated it. The nostalgia helps me through the day and allows me to hope that I can return to the green fields when my job at the construction site is done – return home, at least for a few days of rest. Mid-March It is just mid-March, but the heat and humidity already affect me. I am dehydrated and yet I need to work to send money home. I am worried. What worries me are the stories a

Most nights I lie awake thinking of all the stories I read in the day, of women and children being prosecuted and abused, and how I could do nothing to help them. Last night I lay awake thinking about the days when I didn’t have to struggle with such thoughts. The only time I didn’t have such thoughts is when I was in primary school. As always, one thought lead to another and I began to marvel at the fact that my school was run only by women – a diverse group of catholic nuns and women teachers. I spent 12 years at St. Ann’s High School Tarnaka, from the age of 3 to 14 – the foundation years of my life, and I spent them in the company of girls from different backgrounds, all of us being educated by the same set of empowered nuns and teachers. I had taken for granted their ability to run a school of about 3000 girls, because they always made it look so effortless. Today, as a working professional, I realise, what a mammoth undertaking it is to successfully run a large school and ensur